


Softness, Sweetness, Honey, Honey

by honey_wheeler



Series: But I'm Losing Grace in a Broken Place [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 12:10:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5743342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The path had been lined with beads and sparkles and polished bits of beach glass all in shades of green and gold, perfect to snag the attention of a wandering magpie. And that’s precisely what Val finds in the bower at the end of the path: a flock of sweetly chattering magpies with Margaery Tyrell lounging regally in the center.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Softness, Sweetness, Honey, Honey

**Author's Note:**

> Part of a 1970s Folksinger AU featuring Sansa Stark, scion of Winterfell Records and Down on His Luck Musician Jon Snow. And all other manners of crack, tbh. While this is definitely a Jon/Sansa Fic (as in Jon/Sansa are endgame here), there will be lots of ships floating about. It's the 1970s Music Scene, after all. ;)

It’s not _quite_ the last thing Val expected to find at the end of the path when she was only in search of a place for a quiet cigarette, but it’s close. In retrospect, it doesn’t seem quite so surprising. The path had been lined with beads and sparkles and polished bits of beach glass all in shades of green and gold, perfect to snag the attention of a wandering magpie. And that’s precisely what Val finds in the bower at the end of the path: a flock of sweetly chattering magpies with Margaery Tyrell lounging regally in the center.

There are nearly a dozen girls arrayed about, and Val would wager that not a single one of them is older than nineteen. They curl at Margaery’s feet and lean on her sides, every one of them bright-eyed and dewy with innocence and hanging on Margaery’s every word.

Val snorts and tips a cigarette from her pack. Seems a quiet smoke is not in the cards.

“Val!” Margaery calls, dislodging a particularly worshipful-looking young thing from her right arm to wave Val over. “How splendid, I’m so glad you’re exploring.” If Val didn’t know just how shrewd Margaery is from personal experience, she might take the image she presents now – half-bohemian, half-faerie, all-hedonist – at face value.

“Mm, perhaps I’m not the only one exploring,” Val answers, her lips quirking in a wry grin as she takes in the many pinked cheeks and batting eyelashes, the berry-stained lips caught between white teeth in girlish anticipation. If seduction wasn’t Margaery’s plan, she’s going to have a lot of disappointed young ladies on her hands. Something tells Val that Margaery intends no such disappointment, though, and why should she? Were Val surrounded by curious nymphets on the brink of breathless, experimental surrender, she’d be doing much the same. She salutes Margaery with her cigarette before taking a deep drag, her lipstick leaving a dark ring on the filter. Margaery’s expression grows thoughtful, very nearly calculating. She lifts her chin, as if deciding herself of something, and turns to her coterie of young misses.

“Girls,” she says. “Leave us. Val and I have some…” Her eyes sweep back to Val’s and Val has an uncanny sensation of being pinned under glass like a butterfly. “Some business to attend.”

The girls dutifully stand and trail out, casting doleful looks back at Margaery over their shoulders. Seems they’ll be disappointed after all. Margaery looks entirely unconcerned; her attention is all on Val. A frisson of something electric crackles between them, one that intrigues Val as much as it surprises her

“Are you always to be found in the midst of an adoring throng?” Val asks, pushing any thoughts of types or frissons into the back of her mind for the moment, content to see what comes of them later. Margaery smiles in a way that strikes Val as distinctly feline.

“My dear Val, what are you implying? Most of those girls were my cousins.”

Val laughs outright at that, crossing the little garden to stand next to the bench where Margaery sits, the hard marble edge digging into her shin. “Cousins?” Margaery’s smile breaks into a grin and she wrinkles her nose mischievously.

“Oh, we're probably related somewhat distantly. You know how aristocracy is.”

“And are you an aristocrat?”

Margaery leans forward to pluck Val’s cigarette from her lips and gives Val a wink. “Only on my good days.” She smokes with the same languid elegance she does everything, her fingers unfurling as she holds the fag to her mouth, her nails a pale pink echo of the rosiness of her lips. She inhales with the ease of familiarity and her lips purse in the perfect moue as she exhales a delicate plume of smoke.

“I wouldn’t have thought you were a smoker,” Val says. Margaery smiles again; it seems she’s never without a smile of some sort on her face.

“I’m not,” she says. “I just like to share.”

Val laughs, a quick, sharp sound. “Now why do I get the feeling you mean that about more than smoking?” Margaery’s smile turns demure, almost simpering.

“I always thought you were a clever girl.”

“I’m hardly a girl,” Val points out. “Not compared to those downy-cheeked young misses you had fluttering about you.”

“Mm, true,” Margaery agrees. “You’re more a woman than a girl. Sit.” She waits patiently until Val does. The two of them couldn’t be more of a contrast, Margaery’s fine silks against Val’s denim and t-shirt, her dark, curling hair, against Val’s blonde. Smiling, she holds the cigarette to Val’s mouth, her fingers pressing against her lips, the curled knuckles of her last two fingers brushing Val’s chin. There’s a buzz under Val’s skin that has nothing to do with the fag and everything to do with Margaery’s touch, Margaery’s voice, her smile, her scent – like vanilla and sandalwood – or more truly, everything to do with _Margaery_. As if reading Val’s mind, Margaery runs the heel of her palm up Val’s jawline to her earlobe, thumbing it in a quick caress before bringing the cigarette back to her own lips again.

“You’ve lovely breasts,” she says out of nowhere. Val would laugh if it weren’t for the stab of heat in her gut at Margaery’s words.

“Thank you.”

“May I…?” The look on Margaery’s face is pure innocence, though after a moment’s confusion over what, exactly, she asks permission for, Val knows she intends the opposite of innocence. She’s hardly Margaery’s type – and Margaery’s not entirely hers – but if ever there was a time to indulge, this Highgarden Fayre faux-bohemian silliness would seem to be it, so Val shrugs and leans back on one hand, deftly snagging the fag from Margaery with the other and bringing it back to her lips.

Margaery rewards her with a smile so full of promise, Val feels lightheaded. Delicately, almost primly, like a kitten tasting a bowl of cream, Margaery ducks her head and flicks her tongue across Val’s nipple. Val jerks in surprise; it’s not what she expected. She’d thought a coquette like Margaery would start with coy admiration, with petting and sensual caresses. Her directness only makes it all the more potent. The thin material of Val’s t-shirt is no barrier to the wet warmth of Margaery’s tongue and Val gasps, sitting forward and bringing her free hand to the back of Margaery’s head, Margaery’s hair soft and silken as Val cradles her skull, kneading, encouraging.

“Mmm,” Margaery purrs as she straightens, looking at Val with doe eyes and a delicate smirk, her hand set high up on Val’s thigh with intimate purpose. “Lovely indeed.”

“Ah.” It’s not often Val is lost for words. She finds she rather likes it.

“It seems you’ve chased off all my entertainment for the evening,” Margaery says, looking around them at the empty copse that had full of giggling prettiness only an hour before. “However shall I replace them?”

Val grins. Easily, she catches Margaery’s chin and tilts her mouth up for a kiss so thorough that Margaery is the one lost for words afterwards, her pretty little nails sharp in Val’s thigh as her hand tightens in response. “Such games are for girls rather than women, don’t you think?” she asks. “Shall I show you how I play?” Val looks at her with all the promise she intends to fulfill and Margaery shivers, eyes gone dark and glittering.

“That sounds just about right,” she says, voice faint and breathless, “and I think we should adjourn to my room. Now. Right now.” Val’s grin only widens as she stands and offers Margaery her hand, her palm warm against Val’s. The deal Val struck with her to have Jon play this silly festival is certainly paying unexpected dividends.


End file.
